Antón wanted to know how everyone was in the village. His brother, also called Jacobo; the close relations; and the neighbors. He saved his questions about his wife and daughter until the end. When he asked about Mariana, Kilian could make out a look of sadness in his eyes. He did not have to explain anything. The campaigns were long for any man, but longer for a married man who adored his wife.
After a moment’s silence, Antón looked over Kilian, stretched out his arm, and said, “Well, Son. Welcome again to your birthplace. I hope you will be happy here.”
Kilian gave a knowing smile and turned to Manuel to explain.
“Did you know Jacobo was born here? And I came two years later. After the birth, my mother got sick, so we went back home.”
Manuel nodded. Many people could not take the intense heat and humidity.
“In other words, I was born here, but I don’t have any memories of the place.”
Jacobo leaned across to continue the explanation in a low voice. “Our mother never came back again. My father came and went, and between one cocoa campaign and another, siblings were born. Sometimes, he would see the baby when it was almost two. Then he would leave a new seed and return to the tropics. Of six children, three have survived.”
Kilian gestured nervously to warn him that Antón might hear, but their father was absorbed in his own thoughts. He saw how Kilian had changed, tall as ever, thinner than Jacobo, but now a fully grown man. It seemed impossible that time had passed so quickly since he was born. Twenty-four years later, Kilian had returned to his first home. At first, Antón had not been in favor of his son’s decision to follow in his brother’s footsteps and come to Africa. The idea that he would leave Mariana and Catalina alone to look after the house and the land pained him. But Kilian could be very stubborn and convincing, and he was right when arguing that another injection of money would be good for the family. So Antón had decided to ask the owner of the plantation for work for Kilian, and the owner had accelerated the paperwork so the journey could be made in January, just in time to prepare for the harvest. Kilian would have enough time to adapt to the country and be ready for the most important months, especially the toasting of the cocoa, which would begin in August.
The bustle of people and suitcases around them told Antón that they should go to a different part of the quay. There was still a couple of hours’ journey from Bata to the island.
“I think that the ship to Santa Isabel is ready to weigh anchor,” Jacobo told them before turning to Antón. “It was very good of you to receive us in Bata and travel with us to the island. Maybe you didn’t trust me to bring Kilian safe and sound?”
Antón smiled, not a common occurrence, but Jacobo knew how to coax it out of him.
“I hope you made use of the long journey to bring your brother up to speed. Although from the look of you, I’m inclined to think you spent more time in the piano room!”
Kilian intervened in a serious voice, even if his smile gave away the joke, “I couldn’t have had better teachers than Jacobo and Manuel. You should have seen my brother teaching me Pichi! I’m almost fluent now!”
The four burst out laughing. Antón was happy to have them there with him. Their youth and energy would help make up for the fact that he had begun to lose steam. He looked at them proudly. In appearance, his sons were very similar to him. Both had inherited his green eyes, typical of the House of Rabaltué. From a distance, they looked green, but up close they were gray. The boys had wide foreheads, long noses thick at the base, high cheekbones, and pronounced jaws and chins, though Jacobo’s was much squarer than his brother’s. They also shared the same thick, dark hair, though Kilian sported copper highlights. They stood out because of their height, wide shoulders, and strong arms—Jacobo’s arms were thicker, more accustomed to physical work. Antón knew the effect that Jacobo had on women, but that was because they had not met Kilian yet. The harmony of his features neared perfection. It reminded him of his wife, Mariana, when she was young.
However, their characters could not have been more different. While Jacobo liked to party with the airs of a young gentleman who had no option but to work for a living, Kilian had a high sense of responsibility, sometimes too high. It was something Antón would never admit; he preferred his son to be hardworking and upright instead of fickle like Jacobo.
In any case, it seemed the brothers understood and complemented each other well; that was important in a strange land.
On the short trip between Bata and the island, Antón was especially talkative. After they regaled him with stories about the journey and Jacobo’s constant seasickness, he told them about one of the first journeys he took without Mariana, from Tenerife to Monrovia, when the ship suffered through a terrible storm.
“There was water everywhere, the suitcases floated in the cabins. One minute you were flying, and the next you were drowning. We were lost for three days with no food. Everything was destroyed. In the port of Santa Isabel, they were waiting for us as if waiting for a ghost. They thought we were dead.” He stared toward the horizon, then turned to Jacobo, who was astonished. “It was the only time in my life I was ever afraid. Fear—no, terror! Fully grown men crying like children . . .”
Kilian shook his head. “I don’t remember you telling us this story before. Why didn’t you mention it in your letters?”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” his father replied, shrugging. “Do you think your mother would have let you come if she had heard this story? Anyway, I could not have done it justice. As my good friend José says, it is difficult to describe fear—once it has gotten into you, it takes a lot to get rid of it.”
Jacobo put his hand to his chest.
“I promise never to complain about the journeys again and to enjoy the sight of the whales and dolphins escorting the ships.”
Kilian looked at his father. There was something different about him. Normally he was a serious man, difficult and authoritarian. But from the way he had told the story of the shipwreck, Kilian had sensed a slight sadness in his father’s voice. Or was it fear? And there was that movement of his hand to his side . . .
“Dad . . . are you all right?”
Antón composed himself.
“Very well, Son. The last campaign was just harder than expected.” It was obvious he wanted to change the subject. “The harvest was not as good as we had hoped due to the fog. We had more work than normal.”
Before Kilian could press further, Antón turned to Jacobo.
“Have you brought your birth certificate?”
“Yes.”
Kilian knew that the interrogation would now begin. Jacobo had warned him.
“And the good-conduct cert and the police cert?”
“Yes.”
“The military service record?”
“As well. And the antituberculosis medical certificate with the official stamp, and the certificate from the teacher saying I can read and write . . . For God’s sake, Dad! You reminded me five times!”
“Fine, fine, but you wouldn’t be the first one to be sent back for not meeting the entry requirements. Did they vaccinate you against yellow fever?”